The men who had considered me an aristocrat, and nicknamed me "The Count," soon began to discover that my sympathy was for their troubles, their unhappiness, their helplessness, and not for the warden and the keepers.
I was fully repaid for my attitude. I was made their confidant, their confessor, the judge of their squabbles, a peacemaker and a go-between; when trouble and punishment were in sight, when some particularly unclean and revolting duty was to be performed, the convicts always asked to relieve me of it; and it came to pass that after a while I could devote most of my time to reading, and only attended to the less manual work, such as acting as assistant to the doctor.
Among the patients there was a one-legged negro who was suffering from a painful and unmentionable disease. His big lips, square jaw and scowling countenance made him resemble a big, black bull-dog. Even the keepers were in awe of him. In a fit of danger one day before the old trusty left he very nearly smashed the old man's skull with his crutch.
The first morning that I was left in charge of the hospital I felt some trepidation as to the outcome of my policy of kindness.
The test came quickly. During lunch the negro ordered me, in a loud, angry voice, to bring him something. I went over to his bed and told him gently I was surprised that he had forgotten his good manners; that he had evidently made a mistake in thinking that I was either his keeper or his valet; that we were both convicts, both in trouble, and should treat each other like self-respecting men, helpfully and considerately.
He looked at me with a frown on his face, as he was not quite certain whether I was deriding him; but soon the frown disappeared, and then I said to him: "Now, Davis, what can I do for you?" He answered in a gentle and friendly voice: "Excuse me, mister. I always been treated like a dog. Will you please bring me a spoon?"
From that day on he was tamed; he became more talkative, and even polite. During the long winter evenings he broke the morose silences to tell us of his adventures, and to relate the story of his tragic and terrible life.
He had lost his leg in a railroad accident; and then he had spent several years in hospitals and more years in legal fights to try to collect a few hundred dollars which were never paid. Then, jobless, hungry, destitute, desperate, he had begun to steal. Always unlucky and awkward, he was invariably caught, arrested, and sentenced to jail. Twenty years of his life he had spent in jails and prisons all over the country, and he had even had a taste of the horrible chain gangs of Georgia. He described the punishments he had to undergo because of his inability to work in prison shops; the weeks passed in the "coolers"; the beatings, the tortures he had undergone at the hands of savage, ruthless wardens.
It was an awful, an almost incredible story! It seemed somehow impossible that a human being could go through such an ordeal, such harrowing brutalities, and come out alive and tell the story.